


The Words of Poets

by Nothing_But_Paisley



Category: Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Introspection, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Pon Farr, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 01:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothing_But_Paisley/pseuds/Nothing_But_Paisley
Summary: Spock wants.





	The Words of Poets

Spock is not naïve. Nor is he—no matter what his stern teachers and mocking fellow students might have said years ago—a simpleton.

He is aware that the captain’s behavior towards him often resembles those human courtship rituals known (rather charmingly, he thinks) as flirting. And if he allows himself to be flattered by the attention and return his captain’s lingering looks and gentle teasing in kind, it is only the fault of his thin Vulcan blood. One of many.

He knows, after many months of observation, that Kirk’s regard often finds its expression in such playful displays of amorous interest. Spock is hardly the only person to have felt the stirrings of intent behind Kirk’s smile; he is not even the only man. He is therefore inclined to write these incidents off as a mere quirk of close proximity. Ordinarily, any fleeting physical response he might have to their interactions would be forgotten after a few moments of controlled breathing.

This ship’s night, however, as he lies in almost-darkness still clad in his meditation robes, his heartrate remains elevated by approximately thirty percent. Thirty-two? He cannot tell with any degree of certainty. That is…troubling.

He recalls the faint pressure of Kirk’s hand on the small of his back, and the velvet softness that had tempered his voice as he asked: _Any news, Mr. Spock?_

It is this pleased, ever-so-slightly insinuating voice Kirk reserves only for him. Spock treasures this tone as he once had the cracked bell he stole from the house of T’Pau as a child on a dare from Michael, the copper clapper pinched between forefinger and thumb to stop its ringing. Each time he hears it—and he hears it often—a hidden part of him preens.

He imagines that voice now, pitched low and murmuring tender vulgarities against his neck as he—

_Control._

He looks down to find eight green crescents pressed into the heels of his hands. An involuntary physical response to an image his mind had created independent of his will. Most distressing.

It is unheard of that he should have so much difficulty achieving a meditative state, certainly as an adult. Also that he should be picturing his captain on his knees like some wanton pleasure slave from another age, eyes gleaming with tears as he struggles to…

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together for a long moment, then silently recites the tenets of logic. He makes it to number thirty-seven: _If a given premise lacks a logical foundation, any conclusion derived from that premise must therefore be invalid._

_If Jim’s mind were laid bare for me…_

He inhales sharply at the thought—an illogical premise indeed. Spock has glimpsed Jim’s consciousness, of course, in brief moments of unshielded contact. He knows that it is warm, and expansive, and terribly inviting, though he has never permitted himself to intrude past its shimmering surface. But if Jim were to take his hand and guide it to his face, letting his fingers arrange themselves in the ancient way—if he were to nod his encouragement and unfurl one of those easy human smiles that do nothing to slow Spock’s increasing metabolic rate—what memories and strange, ragged edges of emotion would he find behind the torn veil of modesty?

He thinks Jim’s mind would make itself known to him as golden light and gentle heat, not unlike an eternal Earth summer. It would yield to his touch like one of that planet’s blood-warm oceans. Though he is not usually much given to metaphor, such imagery surrounds him: fulsome stalks of wheat swaying in the sun, white petals showered from fruit-bearing trees, the scent of rain meeting earth. With all that he is, Spock yearns for this.

Such a union would be much more than he deserves. More, perhaps, than a human is capable of giving. To speculate further would be to drive himself insane.

He raises the back of his left hand to his mouth and closes his teeth on the first two knuckles. With a flicker of shame he imagines the taste of alien salt. He wants, with a fierceness that almost frightens him, to see the red rising in cooler-than-Vulcan skin and know that he alone is the cause of it. He wants to claim the golden mind he can sense even now like the ache in a phantom limb. He wants cool lips and hands to slake this terrible heat.

_Heat._

His eyes fly open in the dark.

_Not possible. _

Spock is well past the age of incipient _pon farr_. He is not even, as so many have reminded him so dispassionately, fully Vulcan. The concept of irony is quite foreign to his father’s people, but it quirks Spock’s mouth now as dark amusement uncurls in his chest.

It would seem that his thin Vulcan blood is still thick enough to burn.

He mulls what is to be done with this information as the fever slowly ebbs. This first attack has lasted only a few minutes, but he has read enough overripe pre-Surakian poetry to know that when the fire returns it will flare hotter each time (an inexact figure of speech, but an apt one), taking his mind before it finally kills his body. The prospect is far from pleasant, not to mention undignified.

He recalls the ancient verses of Sytek, translated in accordance with the human taste for iambic pentameter: _“Arena dust and vines of rival blood / The heady pleasures of a fever-bed.”_ So much ink spilled to romanticize a fault of evolutionary biology, as if human beings had composed heroic poems to commemorate attacks of appendicitis. Spock very nearly laughs. He is an officer, a scientist, but his body will soon render him crazed and rutting in the proverbial dirt.

Spock reasons that he has three possible options.

The first and most obvious would be to request leave to return to Vulcan and consummate his betrothal to T’Pring. A tentative reach toward their half-formed bond shows heavy shielding on her end that is not quite strong enough to block out indifference bordering on contempt. He thinks of her cold, moon-like beauty. He will find no solace there, but survival is possible, provided she does not reject him.

The second option is to let the fever take him. It will take a few hours of work to circumvent McCoy’s medical override, but once the work is done he will be able to seal himself in his quarters and risk danger to no one. Death will not come swiftly, but at least he will be secure in the knowledge that he has not caused harm.

He will not contemplate the third.

He will not imagine Sytek’s absurd words on Jim’s lips: _Ashayam, I burn with thee._

Moments later, a fresh rush of heat arches his back and makes him a liar. Spock shifts his thoughts once again to the literary traditions of their two worlds—his own two worlds—because the idea of Jim desiring him is quickly becoming physically painful. On that temperate blue Earth he calls home, love is the “sweet unrest” of Keats. It lets Shakespeare “hear with eyes.”

On Vulcan it is only fire. Spock lies awake in the silent ship, and burns.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I have a lot of feelings about Spock.
> 
> Sytek's overwrought poetry is my own invention. If you would like to see some happy space husbands after this angst-fest, check out my fic Touching and Touched.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
